


Why is it You?

by IneffableDoll



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexuality, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Character Study, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Whipped (Good Omens), Fluff, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Introspection, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), POV First Person, Pining, Queerplatonic Relationships, Rating for Language, So damn soft, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, for like 2K words, it's Crowley thinking about how much he loves Aziraphale, it's literally just soft, that's all this is, that's right it's the pov no one uses on this site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24881974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableDoll/pseuds/IneffableDoll
Summary: Crowley is in love with an angel and he is not happy about it.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	Why is it You?

**Author's Note:**

> This was a fun one to read aloud in editing. Wrote in about an hour of midnight inspiration last night.

For the umpteenth time this millennium, I watch Angel from across the table as he’s taking his first bite of some human concoction, making delighted moans and groans. It’s a sight, really, totally indescribable. He looks ridiculous. He’s wearing a bloody bowtie with bloody tartan, as usual, acting like mousse is an equivalent to divine ecstasy, and his hair is a mess of thick white curls. I’ve always wondered if they’re as soft as they look.

Angel is a bastard, by the way, I’d like to note. Rude and fussy and downright demanding. Puppy dog eyes. Pleading and tempting me without a single bloody word, for centuries. Millennia. You’d think an angel would have, I dunno, some more _dignity_ than to weaponize his stupid sea-green eyes, but no, ‘course not. Destroy good ol’ Crowley with the trembling lip. Sure.

The worst part? I’m in love with him. What the everlasting fuck.

Why him? Why this angel? Someone, this is so annoying. You’d think I’d be used to this by now, but I never – it’s not like I asked for it! I don’t want to feel like this – no, I don’t want to feel at all, full stop, end of discussion. It’s a pain in the arse.

Fuck. I’m in love with an angel. This sucks.

Except – also the worst part, there are so many worst parts – it doesn’t. It’s pretty wonderful, actually. Being around Angel is so nice. And Satan Below, I hate that word – or at least, I have to, or used to have to, bleh, it’s complicated – but that’s how it is.

I’m at the point where I’m sure there’s never been a time when I haven’t wanted to be around him, to talk to him. Sure, we’ve fought here and there, and we didn’t get along perfectly in the beginning, but even when he was a bit of a self-righteous git (more than he is now) and I was a sarcastic arsehole (actually, probably the same as now), I was still…drawn to him, or something cliché like that.

I need to lay off the romcoms stat. I’m getting sappy in my old age.

He’s talking about something. I’ll be honest, I stopped listening a while ago. Something to do with Wilde, so I tune it out. Angel is far too obsessed with Wilde for my tastes. Not because I’m jealous since Angel spent like, two decades completely ignoring me for him – nevermind that I was asleep, shut up – it’s just…he’s overrated is all.

I can feel myself staring, and I’m never more grateful than in these moments that I have such a good excuse to wear sunglasses all the time. The yellow lights of the Ritz are casting Angel in gold, like he’s the fucking sun itself. And I know I’m staring because I’m cataloging everything about him as he talks animatedly. Angel’s often so fussy and withdrawn, but when he’s all caught up like this, his hands flutter about, as though trying to catch and pluck his thoughts from the very air. His eyes light up, like they so rarely used to, and now do so easily.

It feels like an honor to see them now, unguarded, basking in the meal and the restaurant and – I dunno, hopefully the company, who can say. He looks content, like he knows he’s safe. He _is_ safe, so long as I have a say in it, and since I will always have a say in it because I say so, he will be.

It still floors me that he feels safe around a demon, sometimes. I don’t know if I deserve it, but I’m not complaining.

Somewhere in the back of my brain, I know I should stop staring and maybe actually listen to what he’s talking about, but I can’t bring myself out of my silent worship. ‘Cause that’s what it is, and I’m demon enough to admit it. To myself. In my head. On occasion.

Anyway, angels are supposed to be worshiped and Angel fucking deserves praise better than what I can give. Better than the love of some rando demon. But it’s what he has, anyway. Now that Heaven’s out of the picture.

We don’t really…talk about the Fall. But sometimes I can’t help but wonder what he thinks of it. Of me, being a demon. He used to make all those comments – _I’m an angel, you’re a demon, blah blah_ – but those were because of Head Office and shit. He hasn’t made an excuse like that since stopping Armageddon a few months ago and I wonder if he’s noticed. Heaven, I’ve certainly noticed. I feel like I’m always waiting for him to revert to talking that way. To keeping that distance, like we have since time was invented. But he hasn’t.

Oh shit, Angel’s looking at me like I’m supposed to respond. I ask him to repeat his question and now he’s giving me a reproachful glare. No, no, I swear I was listening, just didn’t catch that last bit. Yeah, something about Wilde. Of course. Sure, sure, get both desserts. Angel’s doing the big green eyes thing and he really doesn’t have to, I would say yes, no matter what. Go for it, Angel, I have nowhere to be.

Like I’d want to be anywhere else but by you. Ugh. That’s so sentimental. Fuck.

We’re chatting as he eats the chocolate decadent in raspberry sauce and then the cherry cheesecake. I tell him about my most recent demonic schemes. He mentions every time that we don’t have to do those anymore, and I know that; it’s just a bit of fun. Humans are so easy to mess with, and no one will get hurt. But I do appreciate that he always says it. Our Side, he reminds. He keeps correcting me when I say _your side_ or _my side_. I try to hide how happy it makes me, but I honestly don’t think I do a good job of it. The sunglasses can only hide so much, and I know I’m grinning at him like a besotted fool.

Angel eats slowly. He does most things slowly. He walks slowly, he talks slowly, he reads slowly. He’s never in any rush to get to a destination. I half suspect he’s the one who came up with that _it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey_ thing.

I like destinations. But I’m learning that the journey can be pretty good, too.

Angel is putting down his fork and sighing like he’s stepping out of a spa. That was positively scrumptious, he’ll say, as he always does, and he means it every time. He beams at me and thanks me as I pay the check – I miracle the tip as the waiter walks off so Angel won’t notice it – and I wave him off, as usual, telling him not to thank me, don’t mention it. I secretly hope he will. It’s such a little bit of praise but I’ll take what I can get.

Oh, what was that term I read online the other day? Whipped? Angel wouldn’t know what it meant if I mentioned it. He’d think I meant whipped cream and go on a tangent about tiramisu or strawberry shortcake or something. I make a mental note to get him those strawberry scones he liked at the bakery on Oxford a few years ago. I always meant to take him back there.

Anyway. _Whipped._ I can’t remember the exact definition right now and I don’t feel like looking it up, but it’s something about being head-over-heels, disgustingly revolting in love with someone, willing to do anything for them. Whatever it is, I remember thinking it was relatable. Awful.

This is what I’m thinking about as we walk outside the Ritz. My hands are in my pockets – though these are women’s jeans, so they don’t actually fit without a bit of _persuasion_ – while his are clasped in front of him, like always. I kinda wish he’d let his hang by his side, then I could too, and maybe our hands would brush sometimes, because I’m a fucking idiot. I suppose I could pull my hands out of my pockets first, but I don’t. Too fast and all that jazz. Mmm, been ages since I saw a showing of _Chicago._ They just don’t capture it like they used to.

The walk back to the bookshop is short. Maybe fifteen minutes. I walk deliberately slow, drawing it out to just below twenty-five instead. I never know for sure if he’ll invite me in and I want this to last in case he doesn’t.

I wonder again why I love him. I can never really put it to words. Words aren’t my thing, anyway, but it feels like it’d be unquantifiable even if they were. If I read every book Angel owns, would I be able to describe it? Probably not.

It is the way his lips purse indignantly when I say something purposefully obtuse? Is it how he gets so deep in his book that he forgets the world exists until I show up and bother him? Is it how he scolds me when I go 90 in busy streets? Is it his perfectly manicured fingertips? Is it the fact that he goes to a barber even though he doesn’t let his hair grow? Is it the way he’s always trying to do the right thing and help others, but he’s also a bit of a hedonistic bastard? Is it all because he was kind to me on that damn wall and literally took me under his wing?

I don’t know. Now that’s fucking ineffable.

We’re talking the whole time. I actually engage now, more than I was in the Ritz, and he listens carefully, making comments and asking questions and laughing in a way that makes his every wrinkle seem to glow. I give a passing thought to human beauty standards and wonder how they’re all so fucking dumb as to not see that Angel is the ideal. Round and wrinkled and soft and perfect.

Great, now I’m waxing poetic in my head about his crow’s feet. As if I wasn’t already pathetic enough, now I’m here. Brilliant. Great. That’s exactly what I want to be doing right now. And I hate so much that that isn’t even a sarcastic thought.

We pause outside the bookshop. There are still some people out, a few cars, even though it’s dark and cold as fuck. I wish I had more layers, but that’d botch my aesthetic. Maybe a red scarf wouldn’t be so bad. I’ll have to experiment.

A few streetlamps illuminate the pedestrians of our Soho corner, and the dusty little light above the shop sign casts Angel in a soft ephemeral glow. It’s just like at the Ritz, but a little fuzzier around the edges. His hair is lit up like a halo because of bloody course it is.

And it’s the moment. Angel pauses in what he was saying and looks over at me. His eyes are tender. I know mine are too. Thank Someone for sunglasses, again. Fuck, I’m smiling, though, and I don’t even have the wherewithal to lift a sardonic eyebrow. Nope, I’m just smiling at him, very undemonic-like. He’s smiling back, so soft, like I’m something worth treasuring. I selfishly wish that I’m the only one he gives that smile to.

He asks if I’d like to come in for a drink or two. I nearly trip over myself mentally, trying to remind myself not to answer too quick, too eager. Sure, Angel, sounds good to me. Totally apathetic, I am. Aloof. The King of Nonchalance. He doesn’t buy it; I can tell by the amused twitch of his lips. But he lets me have it and simply leads me inside.

 _Take me back to yours, that will be fine_ , Freddie croons in my head as I follow. I remind him to shut it, but _Old-Fashioned Lover Boy_ is stuck in my head now and I know it’ll be there all night.

As I step over the threshold, I feel my shoulders inadvertently relaxing, the tenseness in my back easing away. Some part of me insists I shouldn’t be so relaxed in an angel’s residence, but I haven’t listened to that voice in a long, long time. Angel has already moved toward the backroom and is asking what my preference is tonight. I tell him to pick whatever suits him. I only really care about who I’m drinking with, after all.

We sit. We drink. We talk. It’s the most ordinary thing. Hours go by. We don’t drink more than a bottle each. We don’t have to drink away the stress like we used to. Now it’s just us. Us two and our humans and the planet.

I tease him for the crepe thing back in France. He teases me for my hair rolls at the dashing rescue. Well, I call it dashing, and he doesn’t argue, so I count it as a win. I point out that we’re not really equal on ridiculousness there, guillotine versus fashion, but he doesn’t concede the point, even though he knows I’m right. Instead, he rants about The Age of Enlightenment for a little bit.

Someone, I love him so much.

I feel my mind drifting. Before long, I’ve slumped so far down the sofa that not even I can call it sitting anymore. He looks at me all soft around the edges, or maybe that’s just my vision as my eyelids slip half-closed. I like having eyelids. Don’t have ‘em as a snake.

I say something about being tired. He says that position can’t be good for my neck. I make a half-hearted effort to adjust myself, sprawled on the sofa more horizontal than vertical, but my leg is still trailing on the floor.

I’m so bloody tired. I know I’m not supposed to get tired, but Angel isn’t supposed to get hungry, so whatever. I’m vaguely aware that I’m mumbling, _Angel, Angel_ , and that’s pretty embarrassing. Can’t stop it, though.

I think he draws a blanket over me. Probably tartan because my suffering is never-ending. Because I like to torture myself, I imagine that he kisses me on the forehead as I pass out on his sofa. At least I think I imagine it. No, I definitely do. He hasn’t done that before; why start now?

Still, it’s nice to pretend. Angel doesn’t owe me anything, and I’m fine, really. I love him. I really, really do. And I’m just tired enough to not be up for pretending it’s something I’m upset about. I sometimes think he might love me, too.

I try to tell him goodnight, but I can’t remember if I get the words out. I know he understands me anyway, though.


End file.
